


Too Close for Comfort

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Family Feels, Freeform, Guilty Consciences, Happy Birthday Doofus Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Slight Canon Divergence, Trash Aunt Goldie O'Gilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Goldie O'Gilt doesn't feel guilty except when she does.





	Too Close for Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Happy Birthday Doofus Drake, I present this.

Goldie returned at dusk, following a habitual visit to the national bank. Her sunglasses dangled around her neck, around a circular edge, ready to fall. She carried her exhaustion across the lobby - snorting derisively at the receptionist hook on her phone screen. Her annoyance went unnoticed, untouched, and she continued upstairs, grip sliding up the banister. Light footsteps never weighed so heavily on renovated wood; each was denser than the last. By time her face met the mattress, every muscle and joint in her absurdly youthful body ached.

She rolled to the side, kicking off her shoes. Midnight skies buttoned in starlight thinned through closed curtains. She wasn’t in the mood for stargazing. She slipped out her pants and set her dangling sunglasses, now useless for the hour, on her dressing table. On her bed she sprawled, stretching her fingers down to her toes, closing her eyes to stubborn thoughts swirling in her head.

It’d been a successful. She earned more than 5.5 million dollars, and the teller at the national bank was pleased to manage her recent deposit. Clara was her favorite teller; talkative and soothing, but sharp eyed and easygoing. Confessing Clara’s skills didn’t wound Goldie’s pride; on the contrary, reassured her money was going to the right people, for the right things, ensured their continued relationship. Now wasn’t the time to think about it, or maybe it was. She climbed to the head of her bed to rest on a pillow, stomach twisted in knots; knots she normally untwisted with a hot bath and sharp drink of chthonic whiskey.

Goldie wasn’t in the mood for baths or whiskey, though she’d partake in the former in the morning. She curled up on the bed, unable to steer her thoughts away, and exhaled. Sleep. She’d sleep it off and feel better in the morning. Soon, her daydreams would slip into distant memory, arising only at the most irritable moments; like dinner or when she was in the shower or that random moment of clarity when her fingers hovered right above a coveted jewel, drenched in luminescent covering. Should I do this...and then she’d do it, because she’s Goldie O’Gilt.

A distant hum helmed her away, and her eyes opened, brow furrowed. She chased the hum until she turned over the edge of the bed, below where her pants and shoes were bundled together. Goldie struggled to get her phone out of her purse, digging through bobby-pins and shivs and diamond pearls; almost, she lamented the loss of a treasured bag some months ago, a bag she’d borrowed from a British nanny some decades ago. Whether said nanny was a witch or fairy Goldie didn’t know.

She pulled out her flat screen and glared. The hum wasn’t an impending phone call but a text message. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, and she thought her age was catching up to her. He wasn’t the one to text (or call), but then again, neither was she.

“I heard about it, you know.”

Back in bed, she reclined, crossing her ankles. Her thumbs trembled over the screen, unsure over taking the bait on her not. She sighed.

“I got 40 bags of pure gold, rubies, priceless sapphires, and diamonds,” she replied, adding an emoji for good measure. “I’d call it a good day.”

She set the phone of her thigh, watching the phone’s waiting for reply bubbles wave on the left side of the screen. Another hum, another distant hum, and she returned the phone to her level.

“He doesn’t understand,” it read. “But he will, one day.”

Goldie frowned. His sentences didn’t trouble her; no, it was the tone. Or the imagined tone her parietal lobe crafted. Was it disappointment? Anger? He didn’t use any alliteration or hyperbole. Her frown deepened. This was serious.

“Like you do?”

“Yes, like I do.”

Her brow needled together, tight. “I suppose you didn’t check your desk, then,” she typed, swallowing the tension in her throat.

“I did.”

“You did?”

“I was surprised,” he confessed. “I didn’t think you’d gotten soft,” she imagined his smirk, promising and hopeful. “But children are quite adept at softening the toughest of toughies.”

“Course you’d make it about you.”

“Oh?” A teasing layer peeled back in his reply. “I thought you were the ICE QUEEN OF DaWSon.”

Goldie snorted. “Having a stroke?”

“No! This blasted phone is over seventeen years old.”

“Sounds like you’re due for an update, Scroogey,” she teased in return. “I know a guy who knows a guy -,”

“Not interested.”

She sent a winking face with a tongue. He sent a money mouth face.

“We’re terrible at this,” she caved. “We’re really bad.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Do you know what click bait is?”

“Do I look like someone who does?” She heard the scoff in his reply, so scathing and annoyed, much like any older person would be. “Dewey’s always going on about likes and thumbs up, and Louie wants to Muzzletime. Bleh. Worse than their mom when she got her first computer.”

For some reason, she felt light. Hearing his voice and seeing his gestures was like breathing; after so many years, it came naturally to her. She curled her legs to her chest, letting the phone’s black recline on her knees.

“Yes, my kids are -,” she paused, staring at the cursor blinking at her. She backspaced. “Sounds like a handful.”

“Aye, it is,” and there was, that happy little sigh she knew he breathed. “It’s worth it. Worth every cent, every single last one of it.”

He wasn’t lying. Her tongue clung to the top of her mouth, and pressure surrounded her chest, squeezing and thumping.

“Hold onto the gold,” she replied. “He’ll need it one day, preferably when he knows how to spend it.”

“If he’s like me, he won’t.”

“Yeah, not a compliment, Scrooge.” She hovered. “Good night.”

“You too, darling.”

Another lightness fluttered free, and she shook her head. She knew it was time to sleep, time to escape to the land of dreams. She had a bottle of horn and ivory nearby. Three drops usually did the trick, but she didn’t want to sleep, not yet. She gripped the phone, pressing it on top of her breasts, pushing her tongue behind her teeth.

It was too late, far too late for anyone to pick up. She’d probably go straight to voicemail, but it wouldn’t hurt, would it? She could leave a message or something else or...or...whatever people did in situations like this did. She tapped, then swiped, then tapped again, hoping her list of contacts would persuade her to put the phone down. Unfortunately, her list was short. She tapped the number and pressed the phone to her ear.

One ring...two...four...six...a stupid plan, she closed her eyes as she planned a monologue, explaining her reasons for callling, asking for updates. Stupid bluffer to hide her real reason.

“Hello?”

“H-hey,” she got out of bed. “Hey, um,” she shoved her free arm under her elbow, “hi, how are you doing?”

She yawned. “Uh...you do know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah, I know, sorry, just...wanted to call.”

“At ten p.m.?”

“It’s better than three. What? You’ve got class? An exam?”

“Gigi, I graduated three months ago.”

Goldie nodded, beak drawn in a grim line. “Yeah, totally forgot, sorry. You got my present, though?”

“Yes, I did, and thank you. Never knew I wanted a stuffed imp.”

“It brings luck.”

“Yes, a dead, stuffed imp brings luck,” she repeated, chuckling at the end. “So morbid and cruel. Gigi, what’s going on?”

“How’s the Waddlemeyer kid doing?”

“What?”

She inhaled. “Gosalyn’s adjusting. She’s made a few friends, good at sports, a big fan of hockey. The therapist comes three times a week.”

“Good, it’s always hard for newcomers,” she stopped at the window, rocking on her heel. “Especially...in her case.”

“Yeah,” her voice was soft, withdrawn. “The police haven’t found any clues or anything about how it happened. They’ve ruled it an accident.”

Goldie scoffed. “Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, pulling the curtain aside. It was truly night, completely and absolutely. “We all know that’s a crock of shit.”

“Gigi.”

“You know it too. Wasn’t he your professor?”

“And the most responsible, practical man alive,” she sighed. “He would’ve never made an accident on his work, not one like that. The only good thing is Gosalyn has a very significant trust fund for when she turns 18.”

“Significant is petty, dear. This girl would make Doofus Drake weep.”

“But the portion she’ll receive at 18 is used for education and housing expenses,” she explained tightly, and Goldie grinned, seeing the scowl on her face. So familiar. “Yes, she’s getting more, but her grandfather wasn’t an idiot.”

“No,” she said softly. “He wasn’t.” Goldie shook her head and closed the curtain, “Talking about trust funds, what about you? You got my gift right?”

“You mean the gift bag filled with gold?”

“Treat yourself. Do whatever young adults do these days; quote memes, cry about fictional characters, wait for the heat death of the universe. Or you could meet a hot stranger on Timber.”

“It’s Tinder.”

“Should be Timber because of morning -,”

“We’ve discussed this, Gigi. No dick jokes, and besides, I’m pan.”

“And I support you, as a good grand -,”

“I won’t make you say it, but thank you. And good night.”

“Wait -,” she heard herself saying before she had a chance to stop her tongue. She heard her breath on the other line, waiting. “I mean,” she twisted her first at her side. “I...are you doing okay, Dixie?”

A deep inhale and a slight crunch of a squeaky mattress, she laughed. Goldie slumped back in bed, sighing.

“Gigi, I am fine,” she stressed, and there it was, the smile in her eyes. A twinkle of the northern star burned in her pupil. “Olympia, Neptunia, and Beckett -,”

“Who’s Beckett?”

“You know.”

Goldie’s beak curled thoughtfully, “Oh,” she said flatly. “The weird guy.”

“Be nice,” Dixie breathed through her nostrils. “He’s a great help, and honestly, we need his type of insanity here. It keeps everything afloat, and we’re doing fine. I’m doing fine. Look, I gotta set the kids up for bed, so we’ll talk soon?”

“Yeah, we’ll talk soon,” Goldie swallowed. “Use the money for you, Dixie, not the orphanage. I’m making enough for all of us.”

A part of Goldie, a large part actually, adored gold more than anything in this world, more than life itself. The security it provided and its luscious splendor was to be admired, and yet, there were other, secretive things she knew she had to prioritize. There was no choice.

“Dickie,” called a voice in the background.

She gasped lightly and then scuffled off. Goldie waited with bated breath, counting the passing seconds until she returned.

“One of the kids had a nightmare,” she said, “but don’t worry, Neptunia is on it.”

“It’s ten p.m., and your name’s Dixie.”

“Kids,” she shrugged. “They mispronounce names and have bad dreams at two in the morning. It’s my job to fight off demon bats and zombies hiding under their bed.”

“If there really was a zombie, it wouldn’t be in the bed. Trust me.”

“Always.”

An uncomfortable, telling silence developed, and neither was ready to break it. Goldie dug her hand through the sheets, lamenting the cool touch spreading across her feathers. She should say more.This was the time. The universe in its infinite wisdom was giving her a chance, because it was worth it, every single heist and bruise and laceration and broken appendage was worth it, for this.

“You should go to bed,” Goldie murmured softly, pushing away a cracked fissure quacking underneath. “It’s late, and you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

“Sure, g’night, Gigi.”

“G’night, dear.”

Warm sheets steadied her mind, but as memories burned under her eyelids, she drifted like autumn's first leaf.

**Author's Note:**

> Goldiemama tries her best. She's growing.
> 
> Goldie and Dickie's jokes were inspired by a discord discussion with Rea. Timber and death of the universe.


End file.
